


Thirty-Love

by ButtertheNutter



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7642948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButtertheNutter/pseuds/ButtertheNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been so long since Roger visited Stan, and Stan thought he had got over it. But when Stan loses to Roger and sees a predatory look in Roger's eyes, he gets the feeling that Roger will be paying him a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-Love

** Thirty – Love **

Stan stood solemn and still in the showers of the changing rooms. He had just lost a match to Roger again. His mind wandered back to the action on courts and settled on images of Roger, of Roger flying and dashing and smashing. He was a hunter out there, and Stan had been his prey. He recalled the predatory look in his opponent’s eyes as they had looked at each other from opposite sides of the court. Stan shivered despite the hot water cascading down his aching body, a feel of fear and dread coursing through him.

Stan knew that this was a conditioned response, a direct consequence of many years of Roger’s unbroken habit of showing his opponents who was boss. At the very thought of it, Stan felt goose bumps rise on his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He subsequently turned up the heat and proceeded to wash himself quickly, for the idea of his back being turned in this locker room gave him chills.

After a rather unsatisfying wash, Stan took a towel from outside of the shower and wrapped it tightly around his waist.

Would he come this time? After all those years, would today be the day he came? Stan wondered helplessly as he rubbed his hair with a second towel. His mind betrayed him once again as he started to see in vivid detail their last encounter.

Roger had won the match, like he always seemed to do. Whilst Stan had been drying off, Roger had come in to the changing room and proceeded to steer him back into the showers and fuck him wordlessly against the cold, tiled wall. After finishing, he simply withdrew, dried himself off and left. That had been several years ago, and it hadn’t been the first time it had happened. But Stan understood. He knew his doubles partner so very well. He recognised Roger’s need to come fairly quickly after a match.

For many years he was more than Roger’s doubles partner. After any match they played together, Roger would appear silent and domineering, almost as if from the shadows, ready to assertively fuck Stan and find his release. It had occurred so often that Stan had started to know exactly how to please the world number one. For example, Stan knew that Federer preferred to ride it out in silence, he knew that he often spoke in a variety of languages during the act, and also that, very occasionally, Roger liked Stan to say his name. All of these things, Stan would do for him, for he had more than a deep respect for his fellow countryman. His best friend was also his comrade, his partner and the object of his desires. It was this that made Stan fall into the jaws of depression when, one day, Roger stopped coming. It had taken him months of therapy and counselling to finally get over the absence of Roger.

But during today’s match, Stan recognised the hunger in Federer’s eyes and feared that once again, Roger would return to his changing room and cause his undoing.

“Merde.” He cursed under his breath as he began patting himself dry. He sat on one of the rough, wooden benches and let his head fall into his hands. He was coming. He knew it, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he let the realisation sink in, he felt his stomach start to twist into knots and the familiar sensation of desire in his groin. Stan took a deep breath and gulped down his nerves before standing to dress. He pulled on his boxers and a pair of jeans slowly as to not interfere with the erection that was developing as he anticipated Federer’s arrival.

He reached for his top, a plain blue collared t-shirt and took it in his hands. He looked it over and quickly discarded it before choosing his second – a white collared t-shirt with RF emblazoned on the sleeve. Yes. Roger would like that. He pulled it on and caught his reflection in the mirror. It surprised him how much this top made him look like a young boy.

Just as his thoughts began to distract him, the door to the changing room opened and Roger entered. Stan whipped his head around quickly and upon seeing Federer standing there, big and beautiful in the light, he turned his whole body and involuntarily backed up against the wall.

“Roger…”

“Hello Stanley”

Stan gulped. He saw the familiar look in Roger’s eyes. It was a look that terrified him, but a look that tantalized him all the same. Perhaps that was precisely what made Roger’s stare so terrifying; the fact that Stan could no longer make sense of his own feelings and became a slave to them whenever their eyes locked in this way.

The door closed behind Roger and he took a few slow strides forward. They were deliberately controlled and measured. Roger Federer calculated everything. You didn’t have to be Stan Wawrinka to know that. He watched as Roger moved towards him, the tips of his shoes lightly brushing the floor with each step, his eyes blazing with that ‘don’t you dare move’ lustful gaze. Stan found himself searching clumsily for anchorage against the wall. His hands grasped at the solid surface he leant against but to no avail.

“Where have you been, Stanley? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Roger was slowly running a long finger underneath the collar of his shirt, playing with the fabric and teasing a much-enamoured Stan to the point of torture. Stan had begun to sweat and he stammered before finding his words.

“Just here, Roger…I waited.”

Roger’s lips twisted into a scheming smile at one of the corners. He stopped in his tracks and forced the smirk from his face and instead replaced it with a convincing glare.

“Who were you waiting for, Stan?”

Stan gulped. Of course Roger knew it was him. It was only ever him…had only ever been him...but he had to hear it. He had to hear that Stan would only ever wait for one man, one tennis player – him. He had to tear his gaze from Roger’s face as his eyes pierced the very soul of him. His glare crawled beneath his skin and began to invade his body.

“You, Roger. Always you.” He spoke quietly, as a child would to his headmaster before receiving a particularly bad telling off.

In a swift movement, Roger was stood nose to nose with Stan. He frowned as he stared into his eyes before moving around Stan’s limp body and standing behind him. He snaked one arm over Stan’s shoulder and placed a large, tanned hand firmly on his chest. Stan breathed in suddenly at the feel of Roger against him. Roger then gently stroked Stan’s neck, speaking in his ear.

“Are you sure? You looked awfully surprised to see me…” Stan could do nothing but shake his head. He stood rooted to the spot as Roger’s fingers drew circles on his collarbone. “Was it Novak you waited for? Huh?” He growled at Stan, knowing full well what the answer was. Stan merely froze, his body paralysed under the firm pressure of Roger who was applying force at his fingertips. The feeling sent waves of pleasure to Stan’s every extremity. How could he be so terrified yet so tantalised all at once? “Or was it Rafa?”

If Stan could have seen the menacing glower that he had been fixed with from behind his shoulder, he would no longer have had to attempt to abate the erection at the front of his jeans. Roger was scowling at him hungrily and with lustful jealousy blazing in his eyes.

“No, Rogi. Just you.” Stan pleaded with Roger because how could it have been anyone else?

Roger removed a hand from Stan’s neck and followed the line of his body until he came across the waistband of his jeans, which he forced his hand under to hold Stan possessively in his grasp.

“This…” he panted “…is for me…” Stan nodded furiously, obeying Roger’s every command. “…No one else…can have his hands on you…” he breathed down Stan’s neck, hot breath that made Stan rigid at every fringe.

Roger continued to press himself firmly against Stan from behind, pinning Stan to him with a vice-like grip. He removed his hand from Stan’s jeans and placed his flat palm on the straining crotch on the other side of the fabric. He pressed firmly and moaned through gritted teeth.

“Where have you been, Stanley?” Stan screwed his eyes up, until they stung with hot, prickly tears. How could Roger ask him such a question? For so long he had waited for Roger, so long that he was close to packing it all in.

He repeated himself, saying the same thing he had been saying all along. “I’ve been here, Rogi…waiting for you…to…come…” he trailed off for a moment and Roger lingered to hear the end of his sentence. “…to me.” “I’m here now.” Roger was close to biting at Stan’s neck. He shut his eyes tightly and bared his teeth as he snarled again. “And I’m going to come.” Stan let a long hot breath that had been trapped in his chest release itself after the realisation that the cycle was to resume. How could he ever have questioned that he belonged to Roger? Roger would never have let him down. They were like Yin and Yang. Roger completed him. And he…

Roger dropped his hands from Stan and stepped backwards to better survey his prize, for Stan was worth more than any trophy. Even the Coupe De Mousquetaires. “The question is-” he sighed “…where would I like to come this time?”

Stan dared not move. He tried hard to resist his temptation to make eye contact with Roger as he allowed him to scrutinize his every inch.

“Take off your shirt, Stanley.” Stan obeyed the instruction immediately, shedding the garment in no time. Behind him, Roger watched as Stan discarded the shirt and he noticed the familiar ‘RF’ on the sleeve. A satisfied smile crept across his face. He wasn’t convinced that Stan deserved the praise for wearing this shirt…yet. Stan had meanwhile stood with his arms crossed defensively across his chest, his eyes gazing up to the ceiling in an attempt to diminish the lure of Roger’s stare.

Roger walked around Stan, surveying every point of his body as if looking for his next conquest. It was now that Stan chanced a look at Roger. He always found it amazing, the control that Roger had over his body. Stan had been stood still and rock hard for minutes now, and circling him was a man preparing to ravage him, yet there wasn’t the slightest hint of readiness on Roger’s part. How was he able to control his physical impulses? He knew no one else with the level of self-control that Roger had. Stan made a silent prayer that he could exercise restraint the way Roger could when he needed to. If he made a move on Roger before Roger was ready, he would be reprimanded for it. Roger was a fair dominant, but he was firm and the punishments could be harsh, but _God_ did Stan love it. In the past, he’d often considered breaking the rules to tempt Roger into administering punishment, but he’d never wanted to risk disappointing Roger and losing his trust.

“Lose the jeans, Stanley.”

Stan hesitated. Really? Roger raised his eyebrows expectantly. _Fuck_! Why did he hesitate? Stan immediately began to unfasten his jeans, undoing the button in haste, but upon seeing Roger staring greedily at his crotch, Stan took a risk and slowed right down. He delicately gripped the zip between his thumb and finger, and slowly…slowly pulled it down. If the roles had been reversed, Stan felt sure he would have been a pathetic mess on account of the tease. Roger, however, gave nothing away about his intentions. Instead, he looked from Stan’s crotch to his eyes. “Are you playing with me, Stan?” Stan’s breath caught in his chest. He froze and gulped. What could he say? He decided it was best to say nothing at all, and instead, he gave a small shake of his head and continued to pull down his jeans to expose the erection pushing through his boxers. There was a distinct wet patch forming at the front. He had just about got his jeans down to the floor and was ready to step out of them when Roger took a large step forward.

“Turn around, Stan.”

Stan paused again, his mouth hanging open. Slowly, he turned on the spot. The very moment that Stan’s back was turned, Roger was up against him, his hands clasping his shoulders possessively. This was it. Stan tried as best he could to prepare himself, but felt himself playing into Roger’s hands. He was being manipulated, controlled. _Oh_ , it felt so good. Stan felt Roger spread his feet and bend over him slightly. Stan braced himself against the wall, pressing his hands flat against the cold tiles. In doing so, his ass pressed into Roger’s crotch, something normally not allowed. On this occasion, Roger didn’t seem to mind, and Stan’s stomach did a nose dive when he felt the telling stiffness of Roger’s erection through his shorts.

The next thing that Stan felt was a finger in the waistband of his boxer shorts. First one, then two and then a third, all running along the band. He had to concentrate hard not to fall over, since his feet were still tangled up in his jeans around his ankles.   


In a swift motion, his boxers were pulled down to rest just underneath his ass and Stan made a soft whimpering sound, a combination of apprehension and pleasure. “Hush, Stanley.” Came Roger’s reassuring voice. His strong hands were so gentle on Stan. He had such power in him, such strength, yet he handled Stan with delicacy. He felt Roger’s hands stroking him, and then kneading him so that Stan was in a blissful state. He allowed his head to roll to the side where it came close to Roger’s. He took in the intoxicating smell emanating from him. It was so masculine.

Roger had begun to breathe more heavily now. The locker room echoed the faint sounds of their moans. Then just as Stan had allowed himself to relax into Roger’s hold, he felt Roger enter him forcefully and so suddenly that it caught him by surprise. Roger let out a satisfied groan of pleasure and simultaneously buried a hand in Stan’s hair, gripping it tightly for steadiness. Stan cried out loudly so that the noise bounced off of the locker room walls. He clapped a hand to his mouth, sure that such an outburst would earn him a punishment, but Roger seemed not to have noticed. Roger began to thrust deep and deliberately into Stan.

“You don’t… see…anyone else. Do you…understand me…Stanley?” he managed to speak in a broken sentence, word by word as he drove into Stan. Stan nodded frantically, desperate to show Roger his utter devotion to him. Roger, who’s eyes were shut tight, gripped Stan’s forearms for an answer. “Do…you…understand me?!” “Yes…yes, Roger!”

Stan was now painfully hard, driven to the brink of ecstasy by Roger, who had picked up his pace and was thrusting rapidly into Stan, each thrust accompanied by a loud moan of gratification. Stan couldn’t last much longer this way. He took one hand from the tiled wall, and moved it down to his cock which had been left neglected. He was leaking. Droplets of clear fluid seeped from the tip of his cock to fall onto the bench below them both. He wrapped his hand around his cock and began pumping his arm, flexing his wrist so desperately he felt it beyond his control. He could feel himself building quickly, quickly…he was so close… A hand clasped itself around his wrist to prise it away from his cock. Roger pulled his hand away and placed it back on the wall. Stan whined. “No, Stanley…” “Roger, please-!” Roger ignored Stan’s pleas for release and persisted with his relentless onslaught. He held onto Stan's arms so tightly that there would surely be a mark. It was Roger's intention. Stan was his. Nobody else's.

Stan had now been staring at the same spot on the wall for what seemed like hours; each second, each minute passing by – so dizzying that the tiles seemed to be twisting, turning, forming patterns. Stan saw images that he knew weren't there – images of what he wanted to see. He had long forgotten that he had been making noises with each grind from Roger’s hips despite their volume and pitch. It paled in comparison to the noises which Roger was now making. Stan chanced a glance back over his shoulder to look at Roger.

From this angle, he could see Roger looking downwards, probably at his own dick pushing in, pulling out rhythmically. God Stan wished he could see. His hair remained still perfectly in place, soft, swishy and beautiful – a stark contrast to his current demeanour. Roger's mouth hung open languidly yet his eyes were screwed shut tight. He had begun to curse in Swiss-German in a growl that stayed in his throat. The creature that lurked inside of him had been tamed long ago and it wasn't Roger’s way to release him. Yet Stan found himself beguiled by this beast that he saw hints of. He was excited by the danger of him.

Roger had just grabbed at Stan’s hair again and simultaneously let out a deafening cry. The very sound of it grabbed Stan around his stomach and he felt a jolt shoot to his groin. Over and over again he went through cycles of being close to his climax and it was denied every time by Roger, who was determined to remain stubborn. He had to grind his teeth together to keep from screaming. His knuckles turned white against the wall and his toes were curling.

“Roger, Please! Please!” He begged. He shifted his hips and pushed back shamelessly into Roger, trying to get an angle that would bring him to orgasm without any direct contact to his throbbing cock which was almost pulsing with pressure. “Roger-”

Then, almost by a miracle, Roger conceded and reached one arm down to take Stan’s dick mercifully in his hand. In time with his thrusts, Roger stroked Stan like a pro. Stan curled his hands into fists as the sweet feel of Roger’s grasp engulfed him, sent electricity racing through every inch of his body. Stan was shaking, ready to explode or collapse, unsure of what lay beyond his orgasm. He had been ready for this for so long and still felt teased. Stan thrashed around at Roger’s ministrations, baying wildly. His tears streamed down his cheeks as he waited, waited for the relief to come.

“Merde!” He swore. He bounced up and down on his toes. His fist banged on the wall. He wailed and growled. “Roger-” he pleaded. “Roger, I can't…” His sentence broke off to give way to another whimper and Roger responded. He took pity on him. His grip suddenly tightened, his strokes lengthened and his speed increased.

“Come for me, Stanley.”

At the sound of his name spoken by Roger, his insides convulsed. The heat and electricity that had been coursing through his body surged towards his groin, and he felt himself shoot messily over the wall as he screamed Roger’s name, but he couldn't hear that. He couldn't hear anything. Roger was still jerking him off when he shot again. This time he watched as his hot, white fluid coated the bench below him. A few times more his muscles spasmed and he knew that he had come over Roger's hand.

“Oh mon Dieu, oh mon Dieu…” He breathed heavily as Roger managed to support both himself and Stan who was quickly becoming dead weight.

“Turn around, Stan.”

Stan paused for a moment. This was certainly unusual. Roger had always taken Stan from behind and always finished before withdrawing. As a result, Stan had never seen Roger in all his glory. When Roger withdrew from him, Stan obeyed immediately and turned to sit on the bench he had just ejaculated onto.

Stan's eyes widened and he couldn't help his mouth hanging open as he saw Roger take a step back, his manhood in his hand. Roger was pumping his fist, jerking himself off. His hand was covered in Stan's semen and he was quickly coating himself in it. Every inch of him was in complete control, including his eyes which were fixed predatorily on Stan’s. The sight was so on-turning, Stan felt sure he could come again just by watching him.

Roger tried to keep his breathing under control. His teeth were gritted tightly and he was taking heavy breaths through his nose.

Not too long after that, Roger’s lips parted and a desperate noise escaped. He was close to his climax. He took a step towards Stan, who licked his lips in anticipation. He watched, his heart beating fast in his chest as Roger increased his pace again. The room was filled with the echoes of Roger’s moans and Stan was tempted to take himself in hand once more.

When Roger’s eyes rolled back in his head, Stan sat up and readied himself. Sure enough, as Roger choked trying to stifle a groan of ecstasy, his body paralysed and a thick white rope shot from the end of his cock, coating Stan’s chest. Another pulse of his cock and there came a second jet, then another and another.

Stan sat and took every ounce of fluid Roger had to give him. He watched the semen mix with the sweat that speckled his chest and wished so desperately that Roger had asked him to suck him off…but that was asking too much.

When the final drop of juice had leaked from Roger’s cock, he sighed and opened his eyes. For a second or two, he made eye contact with Stan. In this brief moment, Stan felt sure Roger was expressing “Thank you” without verbalising it, but when Roger swiftly put himself away and turned on his heel, Stan dismissed this thought.

Roger made towards the door of the locker room, his shoes lightly brushing the floor as they had when he had first come in, with those controlled and measured steps. Stan watched him as he casually ran his fingers through his hair, straightening out a few stray locks. Before his hand touched the door handle, Stan stood up, feeling a fool with his shorts around his ankles and his chest glistening with Roger’s cum.

“Roger, wait…” Roger casually turned his head to regard Stan. Stan opened his mouth, but realised that he hadn’t thought through what he was going to say. Dare he tell Roger how he felt? He opened and closed his mouth like a fish for several seconds, but gave up on trying to form a sentence. Roger raised his eyebrows. “Until next time, Stanley.” And with that, he opened the door and left the locker room.

Stan stood silent for several minutes after Roger’s departure. He stared at the door, hoping that Roger would come back in. But deep down, Stan knew he wasn’t coming back today, or tomorrow. Stan wouldn’t see Roger for a long time now. Not knowing whether to smile or cry, he brushed a finger through the sticky white semen on his chest before picking up the discarded RF shirt on the floor and wiping himself clean and heading back to the showers.


End file.
